Religion

My family is one of those liberal, confused, spiritual, close-knit, kumbaya types. So, after opening our presents, we went to see Sherlock Holmes. My father, an avid Arthur Conan Doyle fan, was disappointed by the film's version of characters and plot; my mother slept through most of it except those scenes with Rachel McAdams; and my sister and I fell in love with Jude Law all over again.

And then my family came back home, ate chocolate and baked Lays and drank apple cider. I decided to capitalize on the Netflix free trial period, and watched movies all afternoon, including plot-less Indie films like David and Layla, inspirational movies like Jerry Maguire and the First Wives Club, and the classics, namely She's All That.

I felt warm and fuzzy and nostalgic when Freddie Prinze, Jr. and Rachel Leigh Cook kissed. I wanted to be in love and be an artist and be frozen in this one moment forever. The eco-friendly, plastic Christmas tree glowed red and gold in the living room, illuminating the plates and pots from Mexico on the hutch. My family was dispersed throughout the first floor, afraid to be more than 10 or 12 feet away from each other. Every now and then, someone would join me on the couch in front of the TV. And the world comprised me, Netflix, whole wheat crackers, and whoever was under the blanket with me.

Merry Christmas, or whatever.